I Don't Love Him
by Darkfire75
Summary: He sees them together a lot. It shouldn’t surprise him really. They’ve been allies for so long. But deep down, it hurts; it hurts to see the Frenchman so happy with the Spaniard. Deep down, England wishes he could be that special to France.


_**Author's note:**__ Yay for FrUk! Yay for more angst! XD So anyway, I got this idea one night and wrote a whole summary for it before actually writing it out.. It's not as angsty as I wanted it, but meh. I don't know why I wrote in present tense either ^_^; I usually hate it, but I guess it just flowed easier for me._

...Hmm, I notice a pattern to my fics. One character pines after another he thinks he has no chance with...WHY DO I LOVE SCENERIOS LIKE THAT? D:

***

He sees them together a lot. It shouldn't surprise him really. They've been allies for so long. But deep down, it hurts; it hurts to see the Frenchman so happy with the Spaniard. Deep down, England wishes he could be that special to France. He knows it's an impossible dream, a stupid dream, but that doesn't stop him from wanting it. When he sees France and Spain conversing and smiling and enjoying each other's company, the green envious monster inside of him wants to lash out. He knows it's wrong to feel jealous. What does he have to be jealous of?

He doesn't particularly _like_ France. He just doesn't like him with Spain. But that doesn't mean he _loves_ him or anything.

England assumes that telling himself not to care so much will make the jealous monster go away. But it doesn't. He sees the two after world meetings and how France touches Spain's thigh and how Spain doesn't remove it. It hurts more than he thinks it should. France used to pester him until he was chasing him with the closest lethal object handy. But it seems he has since moved on to easier prey. The Brit never thought he would miss France's lingering touches. But he does now.

It's not as if England _owns_ France or anything. But they _have_ known each other for centuries. In the back of his mind, England feels that maybe he is entitled to France's affection more. Then he remembers that France and Spain actually grew up together. They've known each other even longer and that hurts England more. But why should he care, right? It's not like he _wants_ France or anything. He just…He just wants France to _acknowledge_ him again.

He knows this will never happen, even if they have been at peace for over a hundred years. Even though they have so much history together, he knows France will never view him as anything but his island neighbor. And so, during world meetings, he ignores the obvious touches France is trying out on Spain; he ignores the way Spain just _allows_ it all; and he ignores the playful, flirtatious grin on France's face. He finds himself in a bar after one of the many meetings.

Drinking won't solve anything and he knows this. But he wants to forget. He wants to ignore this growing hole in his chest the more he sees France and Spain together. He slumps over the counter, a bottle of whiskey in hand.

"Rough night?" the bartender asks.

England blinks at him through his hazy vision and snorts. "Try a bloody rough century."

Before the man can ask what he means, England hears a familiar voice. "_Mon cher_, I'd thought I'd find you here."

There he is. The object of his…not-affection. England tries for a moment to make himself truly hate the Frenchman but he realizes he just can't. Even through everything the other nation has put him through, he cannot fully despise him. "G'way," he grumbles.

France merely smiles and sits beside him. "You seem upset."

"Oh jolly good. Spot on."

"Did America do something?"

England glares at him. "Why do you automatically assume it's _America_ who's caused me problems?"

"Well—"

"He's not the _only_ one that pisses me off, you know."

France wisely shut his mouth. "_Angleterre_, you should stop drinking now," he mumbles softly.

"Why?"

He takes the bottle away from England. "Come, I will bring you to your hotel."

"No."

"Do not be stubborn, _rosbif_."

Then he snaps, turning around in his chair and glaring heatedly at the other. "You're so bloody stupid! Always with Antonio and…and what about _me_?! Aren't I important to you? Do I mean nothing? I mean, I'll understand if you don't feel the same way, but for heaven's _sake_, Francis!"

France says nothing, but his eyes are wide. England seems unaware of what he just said and goes back to burying his head in his arms. France then grabs his arm and pulls him off the stool to stand. He steers him out of the bar and down the street towards the hotel. When he manages to ask the desk clerk where England's room is, he takes him into the elevator and supports his dead weight. England is mumbling incoherently, even as they reach the correct floor. And by the time France has opened the door, England is semi-awake.

"You should come in," he slurs.

"I'd better not," France replies, trying to turn and leave.

"Staaaay," he whines with a pout. He pulls on France's tie with a smirk. "I insist."

"Arthur—"

His protest is cut off by a sloppy drunken kiss. England's mouth tries to devour his eagerly. He can barely register that legs have wrapped around his waist. England grinds against him, moaning and tossing his head back and looking so delicious but, no, he has to stop it. France pulls away and detangles himself from the drunken Englishman. He says nothing as he turns on his heel and leaves. England falls asleep on the floor moments later.

When he wakes up, he notices he has a terrible headache. He also notices that he spent the night on the floor half-dressed. "What the bloody hell—?" And then it all comes back to him in a flash and he's horrified. "Oh…_fuck_." He stands up and panics, trying to wrap his mind around what he did last night. He falls onto the bed and curls up, feeling a tight pain in his chest. He's surely ruined everything now. France will never want to speak to him again.

He feels the tears running down his cheeks and clutches the pillow tightly. _Just kill me now_, he pleads. Then he hears a knock on his door. Gathering his wits about him, he goes to answer it. He is shocked to see the one person he _doesn't_ want to see. He tries to close the door, but the other nation passes over the threshold.

There's an awkward pause before France finally says, "Why didn't you say anything?"

England shifts on his feet nervously and avoids eye contact. "…I figured Antonio meant more to you," he grumbles.

France laughs then and walks closer. He takes England's face in his hands and wipes the stray tears from his eyes. Then he leans down and kisses him and oh, England has never felt happier. He can feel his heart suddenly soaring and a weight lift off his shoulders. France pulls back with a smile. "Never, _mon Angleterre_," he purrs. "There is no one who means more to me than you."

England feels the tears building up and doesn't hold them back. He throws his arms around France's neck and whispers into his ear, "Thank God. Because I fucking love you too much to give up, you bloody frog."


End file.
